


Gather the Roses

by Idrils_Scribe



Series: Gather the Roses [3]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Arwen's controversial career choices, Drunken Shenanigans, F/M, Family, Family Feels, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fatherhood, Married Life, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Parent Elrond, Poor Elrond, Pre-War of the Ring, Protective Elrond, Rivendell | Imladris, Slice of Life, Third Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:14:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25019863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idrils_Scribe/pseuds/Idrils_Scribe
Summary: The tale of a perfectly ordinary day in the life of Elrond Peredhel. A day without grand councils, dark lords or epic battles. Nothing about today will be remembered in song and story, but the Lord of Rivendell still has his hands full: he is a husband, father, ruler, teacher ...  and healer.Accidents happen, even on ordinary days.Many thanks to Firstamazon for the beta!
Relationships: Arwen Undómiel & Celebrían, Arwen Undómiel & Elrond Peredhel, Celebrían/Elrond Peredhel
Series: Gather the Roses [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2033653
Comments: 16
Kudos: 65





	Gather the Roses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anoriath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anoriath/gifts).



> For Anoriath, who deserves to see Elrond happy for a change (I kept the angst to an absolute minimum. Really, I tried!)

**Rivendell, the year 300 of the Third Age**

Elrond woke in the silent, sea-blue hour before dawn. Beside him Celebrian’s eyes remained glassy with dreams. She had shifted onto her side in the night, an arm flung out, the silver fall of her hair fanned out over the pillow. 

He pressed a kiss to her cheek and inhaled deeply of the soft, sleepy scent of her, but his touch barely rippled the stilled surface of her mind. She mumbled something that could be his name, and turned away to sink into some happy memory once more.

He slid from the bed, the tile mosaic cool beneath his bare feet, and wrapped a robe around himself. All his life he had been an early riser. A head start against the world stood him in good stead many a time, in war and politics. He once shared the habit with Maedhros, and later Ereinion - and maybe with Elwing before that. He did not know, and perhaps never would. 

They were no more, but Elrond still greeted the world in the hour before sunrise to watch the new day being born.

\----

Morning council was a brief and uncomplicated affair, in these days of peace. Elrond and Glorfindel received the captain of the night guard on the balcony adjoining Elrond’s study, their faces to the spectacle of shifting colour that was sunrise over the snow-capped Misty Mountains. The air was crisp and cool, and birdsong drifted on the summer wind.

Borndis had nothing more menacing to report than a few high-spirited Wood-elves making mischief after an excess of elderberry wine. 

“Where are they now?” Elrond enquired, his fingers wrapped around a steaming cup of strong tea.

His Nandorin captain shot him a sharp smile. “We had them sleep it off in the stables.” Her expression showed plainly that this was but the barest summary of events. Elrond realized he was likely better off not knowing the full tale. 

“Halloth has them shovelling the soiled straw this morning." Borndis’ nose wrinkled. "The stench is overpowered only by the sound of their whingeing. We will have them put the beanpoles back up next.”

Elrond was at a loss for words. He tried his utmost to understand all Elf-kindreds that dwelt in his realm, but at times likes these the Nandor remained as great an enigma as when he first set foot among them.

“What in Elbereth’s name did they want with them?” asked an equally baffled Glorfindel.

“They meant to stilt walk across the Bruinen, my lord. I distinctly recall hearing: ‘I am a stork!’” 

Borndis’ grin was sharp as a newly whetted knife. She was a gifted songsmith, and Elrond had no doubt that this particular quote would be set to music before nightfall. The perpetrators might live it down in a long-year or so, if they were lucky.

Elrond found he was rather looking forward to hearing it. He could not keep from smiling as he passed judgement. “Glorfindel, have a stern word with them while the headache lasts. Their penance shall be the upkeep and harvesting of that bean-field.” 

At Elrond’s nod Borndis rose and saluted smartly. Elrond sent his Nandorin captain  a particularly warm smile. “The lady and I would enjoy a performance, when you finish the tale of this ... escapade.”

Her eyes lit up with such genuine merriness that Elrond instantly felt buoyed by it. “It will be my pleasure, lord. Expect me at sunset.”

With a single, elegant leap Borndis vaulted over the balcony railing to land on the lawn below, graceful as a great cat. In a heartbeat her slender shape had disappeared amidst the rowans in the garden, her song trailing behind her. Elrond and Glorfindel sat listening until the receding  _ tra-la-la-lally _ was drowned by the roar of the waterfalls.

\----

The House of Healing, at least was a haven of Noldorin order and discipline. The healers with night duty were on their way out after after carefully tending the fires underneath the great still by the hours of the moon. The man-high copper alembic had been polished to a silky shine. It distilled pure grain alcohol for the healers’ use in various medicines and disinfectants. The still’s daytime attendant seemed less than thrilled with his appointed task. 

“Good morning, Tarcil! I hope it finds you well?”

Surprise flitted across the fair face of Arnor’s Crown Prince. Clearly the boy was unused to being addressed by his unadorned father-name. Elrond made note of it - he had never known the Royal House of Arnor to hold so fast to honorifics. 

Tarcil was but newly arrived to his fosterage in the House of Elrond, as was traditional for the crown princes of Arnor ever since Valandil’s long sojourn, and he seemed ill at ease with his Elvish environment. 

“Good morning, Lord Elrond.” Tarcil answered quietly. He was barely past his twentieth year - that gangly, coltish phase even Elven children must pass. For a sweet moment Elrond roamed in the recollection of his own sons at that age - Elladan’s bright inquisitiveness, Elrohir’s daring larks.

Then Tarcil turned, and the light caught the line of his cheekbone in a way that choked the breath from Elrond’s chest. 

_ So much of Isildur in this one!  _

Elrond pushed aside the wave of ancient sorrow and shame and anger at the recollection. The Dúnedain were perceptive, and to avoid frightening the boy Elrond turned away to cast an expert eye on the colour of the flames burning beneath the kettle. After a moment’s contemplation he waved Tarcil closer and laid a fatherly hand on his shoulder as he pointed at the temperature gauge. 

“You need to add fuel, Tarcil. See here, the temperature is falling. Soon you will be distilling wood alcohol instead of miruvor. It is no matter to Elves, but Mortals might lose their sight, or worse.”

Tarcil looked stricken as he scrambled to add a bundle of firewood. Soon the flames leapt higher, bathing Tarcil’s face in a poppy-red glow when he gathered his courage and asked the question that must have been on his lips for days. “Lord, what use is this?”

Elrond knew not what to say, at first. “You came to this house to be taught how to rule. Are you not learning?”

“When does a king need to run an alembic?” The boy had a logical mind. It would stand him in good stead all his life.

Elrond was gentle when he answered, eyes still on the flames, “A healer would. And you should become one in full, including the more mundane aspects. Any apprentice of mine needs to know medicine-making inside and out.” 

“The hands of the king are the hands of a healer.” Tarcil declaimed the verse in archaïc Quenya, from rote memory.

“And so shall the rightful king be known,” Elrond added. At the sight of Tarcil’s unease, a sudden insight gripped him. “Great expectations, and you fear falling short.”

The boy met his eyes for the first time, honest and direct. “I cannot sing wounds to mending the way the Elves do. My grandfather and father can.”

Ai, so many memories! Valandil, Eldacar, Arantar, Tarcil. The serious, grey-eyed scions of Isildur. Elros’ children. 

“They were once apprentices, like yourself.” Elrond replied. “Learning begins with simple skills. Like tending an alembic.” 

He smiled, and at last received a tentative smile in return. 

\----

Celebrían was shocked and concerned. Elrond could feel her approach, surrounded by urgent calls and running feet. Soon the solemn silence of the House of Healing was shattered by worried voices.

“Father. It is nothing.” Arwen seemed to be hanging from Celebrían’s supporting arm, her face pale as ivory. 

With mounting concern Elrond noticed the sheen of sweat beading her forehead. Quick as a striking falcon he lifted her into his arms and laid her out on the bed before she would collapse and injure herself further.

“What happened?” he demanded, scanning her familiar form for damage or maiming. She was wearing a smith’s apron over a soot-stained linen smock, the dark silk of her hair aggressively braided back and pinned against her head to keep it from falling prey to the brazier’s flame.

Arwen closed her eyes and breathed against tears. 

Celebrían summarized, her voice rough with dismay. “She spilled a drop of molten silver and tried to catch it in her palm.”

For the second time today Elrond found himself struck dumb. “Why!?”

Arwen shook her head. “It happened very fast. I thought to keep it from the floor. I did not think.”

Celebrían made a wordless sound of displeasure.

Elrond stood still for a moment, contemplating both the Sindarin distrust of Noldorin artifices, and the grudge Celeborn’s House still carried against Celebrimbor the jewelsmith, who deposed them in Eregion. Celebrían had been less than pleased with Arwen’s choice of craft, to put it mildly.

Instead of quarreling, Elrond reached for the wet towel wrapped around Arwen’s right hand. Her sleeve was soaked to the elbow - she had had the good sense to plunge the burn into her slack tub.

The soft, sighing sound that escaped her lips when he bared the injury made her father’s heart contract in his chest. Celebrían, too, seemed mollified, because she took Arwen’s left hand in her own and caressed it in gentle, soothing circles. 

The right one was grotesquely swollen, the palm raw and blistered. With utmost care Elrond lifted the stricken hand, turned it this way and that while Arwen winced and squeezed her mother’s hand until her knuckles went white.

“The pain is a good sign - the nerve endings are not destroyed. You have done well by soaking it. I will salve and bandage the wound, and Sing it to healing.”

He gave Arwen a fatherly smile. “You will be back in the forge in a fortnight. When you next spill molten silver, let it fall.”

Elrond rose and went to the adjacent storeroom, returning with a bottle of sterile saline, muslin bandages and a jar of burn salve. 

Celebrían’s eyes sought his. “Elrond, will you not counsel her to a different path? Of all the crafts she might choose, must it be this?” She turned to look Arwen in the eye. “You offend half your people with this mad pursuit of Fëanor’s ways, and maim yourself in the process. What could you possibly get out of it!?”

Arwen scowled. “This is but a small matter, a beginner’s mistake. In a long-year not even the scar will remain. Must you be so angry, mother?”

“Silverfist!” Celebrían exclaimed as she pointed at Arwen’s mangled hand. “Surely you understand that this is a sign?”

“Are even the wise prey to superstitions?” Arwen was so enraged that she hardly noticed when Elrond began cleaning the burn. 

“Arwen.” Celebrían spoke her daughter’s name like a supplication. “No good ever came from this Noldorin sorcery. Name me a single jewelsmith who was anything remotely resembling sane?”

Elrond did not interfere, busy as he was weaving his Song as he applied the thick salve. A comforting scent of honey and athelas drifted on the air.

Arwen seemed unaffected. “Celebrimbor was quite rational.”

Celebrían scoffed. “I beg to differ, and  _ I  _ actually knew the man.” 

Arwen drew breath to protest, but Celebrían was quicker. “And the less said about Celebrimbor’s grandfather, the better.”

Arwen’s eyes glittered with indignation and splashes of red lit up her cheeks. At the sight Elrond was struck by a vision, fluttering against the walls of his mind like a moth beats itself on a glass window. 

“Ai Valar!” He gasped sharply as if winded by a blow, and turned to face the wall, frantically rubbing his eyes.

"Elrond?" Faced with his distress both Celebrian and Arwen instantly forgot their argument. 

Celebrían’s arm came around his shoulders, her mind all care and concern. “What is the matter?”

"I beg you, do not quarrel," he said, battling the tears that would strangle his voice. "No politics or strife should come between parents and their children. Who knows when we might lose one another? If Arwen desires to be a jewelsmith, is she any less beloved for it? And Arwen, if your mother chooses to honour the Sindar ways, what does it matter to you? Love one another as you are, while you can!"

Fear stood starkly in Celebrían’s eyes. "What have you seen, Elrond!?"

Elrond shook his head and smiled wanly. "Nothing more than the memory of evil days. Perhaps I have risen too early, on an empty stomach. Will you two join me for breakfast?"

The Lord of Imladris linked arms with his wife and daughter, and left the House of Healing. 

**Author's Note:**

> How do you like the various parts of Elrond's busy morning? Hearing back from readers makes me a very happy Scribe!


End file.
